Portrait of a Lady, by Henry James

Chapter XL

Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady having indulged in frequent
absences from Rome. At one time she had spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a winter in
Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and gave countenance to the idea that for the future she should
be a less inveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the past only in the sense of constantly
having an apartment in one of the sunniest niches of the Pincian — an apartment which often stood empty — this
suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore.
Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame Merle, but it had not essentially altered it;
there was still much wonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it was a pleasure to see a
character so completely equipped for the social battle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished
steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more and more that of a veteran. She was never weary,
never overcome with disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own ideas; she had of old
exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her
highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was mistress of her life; there was something
gallant in the way she kept going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it — as if the art of life were some
clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts;
there were days when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness what it was that she was
pretending to live for. Her old habit had been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived
possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person she had been used to proceed from one little
exaltation to the other: there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had suppressed enthusiasm; she
fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she lived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel would
have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant friend had been near she would have made an appeal to
her. She had become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that — of having made one’s self a firm
surface, a sort of corselet of silver.

But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed acquaintance with our heroine that the
personage in question made again a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done since her
marriage; but by this time Isabel’s needs and inclinations had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame
Merle that she would have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this lady’s clever trick. If she had
troubles she must keep them to herself, and if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself
beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an ornament to any circle; but was she — would she be —
of use to others in periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her friend — this indeed Isabel had
always thought — was to imitate her, to be as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel,
considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of
an intercourse which had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was almost detached — pushing to
the extreme a certain rather artificial fear of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion that
she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note — was apt, in the vulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never
admitted this charge — had never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle’s conduct, to her perception, always bore the
stamp of good taste, was always “quiet.” But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the Osmond
family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid a little. That of course was not the best taste; that
was rather violent. She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other interests; that though she,
Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not after
all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke of their affairs till she was asked, even pressed — as
when her opinion was wanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid as we know, and one day
she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel.

“I MUST be on my guard,” she said; “I might so easily, without suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be
offended, even if my intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew your husband long before
you did; I must not let that betray me. If you were a silly woman you might be jealous. You’re not a silly woman; I
know that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I’m determined not to get into trouble. A little harm’s very soon
done; a mistake’s made before one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your husband I had ten years to
do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn’t likely I shall begin to-day, when I’m so much less attractive than I was.
But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn’t belong to me, you wouldn’t make that reflection;
you’d simply say I was forgetting certain differences. I’m determined not to forget them. Certainly a good friend isn’t
always thinking of that; one doesn’t suspect one’s friends of injustice. I don’t suspect you, my dear, in the least;
but I suspect human nature. Don’t think I make myself uncomfortable; I’m not always watching myself. I think I
sufficiently prove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to say is, however, that if you were to be jealous —
that’s the form it would take — I should be sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn’t be your
husband’s.”

Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett’s theory that Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond’s
marriage. We know how she had at first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond’s marriage, but she
certainly had not made Isabel Archer’s. That was the work of — Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence,
fortune, of the eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt’s complaint had been not so much of Madame Merle’s
activity as of her duplicity: she had brought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Such guilt
would not have been great, to Isabel’s mind; she couldn’t make a crime of Madame Merle’s having been the producing
cause of the most important friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just before her marriage, after
her little discussion with her aunt and at a time when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the tone
almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. If Madame Merle had desired her change of state she
could only say it had been a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly straightforward; she had
never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert Osmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less
convenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk, this roundest and smoothest bead of their social
rosary. “Don’t you like Madame Merle?” Isabel had once said to him. “She thinks a great deal of you.”

“I’ll tell you once for all,” Osmond had answered. “I liked her once better than I do to-day. I’m tired of her, and
I’m rather ashamed of it. She’s so almost unnaturally good! I’m glad she’s not in Italy; it makes for relaxation — for
a sort of moral detente. Don’t talk of her too much; it seems to bring her back. She’ll come back in plenty of
time.”

Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late — too late, I mean, to recover whatever advantage she
might have lost. But meantime, if, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel’s feelings were also not quite
the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A dissatisfied
mind, whatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as thick as buttercups in June. The fact of
Madame Merle’s having had a hand in Gilbert Osmond’s marriage ceased to be one of her titles to consideration; it might
have been written, after all, that there was not so much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and
Isabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would not have been. That reflection indeed was
instantly stifled; she knew an immediate horror at having made it. “Whatever happens to me let me not be unjust,” she
said; “let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them upon others!” This disposition was tested, eventually, by that
ingenious apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make and of which I have given a sketch; for
there was something irritating — there was almost an air of mockery — in her neat discriminations and clear
convictions. In Isabel’s mind to-day there was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of
fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had just made the statements I have quoted: Madame
Merle knew so little what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to explain. Jealous of her — jealous
of her with Gilbert? The idea just then suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible; it
would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn’t it in a manner one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle,
however, was wise, so wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than Isabel knew herself. This
young woman had always been fertile in resolutions — any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had they
flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day. It is true that they all had a family likeness; they
might have been summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should not be by a fault of her own.
Her poor winged spirit had always had a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously discouraged.
It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice — not to pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its
disappointment would be a petty revenge — especially as the pleasure to be derived from that would be perfectly
insincere. It might feed her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was impossible to pretend that
she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a
free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself. There had been no plot, no snare; she had
looked and considered and chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to repair it — just
immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it. One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever;
a second one would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a certain nobleness which kept Isabel going;
but Madame Merle had been right, for all that, in taking her precautions.

One day about a month after Ralph Touchett’s arrival in Rome Isabel came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not
only a part of her general determination to be just that she was at present very thankful for Pansy — it was also a
part of her tenderness for things that were pure and weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her
life that had the rightness of the young creature’s attachment or the sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was
like a soft presence — like a small hand in her own; on Pansy’s part it was more than an affection — it was a kind of
ardent coercive faith. On her own side her sense of the girl’s dependence was more than a pleasure; it operated as a
definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said to herself that we must take our duty where we find
it, and that we must look for it as much as possible. Pansy’s sympathy was a direct admonition; it seemed to say that
here was an opportunity, not eminent perhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could hardly have
said; in general, to be more for the child than the child was able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in
these days, to remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she now perceived that Pansy’s
ambiguities were simply her own grossness of vision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much — so
extraordinarily much — to please. But since then she had seen this delicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what
to think of it. It was the whole creature — it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to interfere with it, and
though she was constantly extending her conquests she took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs.
Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her company; it had the effect of one’s carrying a
nosegay composed all of the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any provocation to neglect her — this
she had made an article of religion. The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel’s society than in
that of any one save her father — whom she admired with an intensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an
exquisite pleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabel knew how Pansy liked to be with her
and how she studied the means of pleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her was negative, and
consisted in not giving her trouble — a conviction which certainly could have had no reference to trouble already
existing. She was therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; she was careful even to moderate the
eagerness with which she assented to Isabel’s propositions and which might have implied that she could have thought
otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions, and though she delighted in approbation, to the point
of turning pale when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked toward it wistfully — an attitude
which, as she grew older, made her eyes the prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo Roccanera
she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a reasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the
first to propose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances, for she knew her little companion had
a passionate pleasure in this exercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy. Society, moreover,
had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome parts — the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush
at the door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this vehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a
small fixed, appreciative posture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken to drive for the first
time.

On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of the city and at the end of half an hour had
left the carriage to await them by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the Campagna, which even
in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate flowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a
walk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her first coming to Europe. It was not the form of
exercise that Pansy loved best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with a shorter undulation
beside her father’s wife, who afterwards, on their return to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the
circuit of the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful of flowers in a sunny hollow, far from the
walls of Rome, and on reaching Palazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into water. Isabel passed
into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually occupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was
entered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond’s rich devices had not been able to correct a look of
rather grand nudity. Just beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the reason for her doing so being
that she had received an impression. The impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as
something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take in the scene before she interrupted it. Madame
Merle was there in her bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were unaware she had come in.
Isabel had often seen that before, certainly; but what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their
colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar silence, from which she instantly perceived that
her entrance would startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from the fire; Osmond was in a deep
chair, leaning back and looking at her. Her head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his. What struck Isabel
first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she
perceived that they had arrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing, face to face, with the
freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange ideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they
were old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a moment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their
relative positions, their absorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all over by the time she
had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and had welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had
instantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a walk and, after having asked their visitor to
excuse him, left the room.

“I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn’t I waited for you,” Madame Merle said.

“Didn’t he ask you to sit down?” Isabel asked with a smile.

Madame Merle looked about her. “Ah, it’s very true; I was going away.”

“You must stay now.”

“Certainly. I came for a reason; I’ve something on my mind.”

“I’ve told you that before,” Isabel said —“that it takes something extraordinary to bring you to this house.”

“And you know what I’ve told YOU; that whether I come or whether I stay away, I’ve always the same motive — the
affection I bear you.”

Isabel shook her head gravely. “I know you’ve always been kind to me.”

“As often as you would let me. You don’t always take it; then one has to let you alone. It’s not to do you a
kindness, however, that I’ve come to-day; it’s quite another affair. I’ve come to get rid of a trouble of my own — to
make it over to you. I’ve been talking to your husband about it.”

“I’m surprised at that; he doesn’t like troubles.”

“Especially other people’s; I know very well. But neither do you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you
must help me. It’s about poor Mr. Rosier.”

“Ah,” said Isabel reflectively, “it’s his trouble then, not yours.”

“He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a week, to talk about Pansy.”

“Ah,” said Isabel, “for all the comfort I’ve given him! If you think me dry, I wonder what HE thinks.”

“I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done.”

“I can do nothing.”

“You can do more at least than I. I don’t know what mysterious connection he may have discovered between me and
Pansy; but he came to me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps coming back, to spur me up,
to know what hope there is, to pour out his feelings.”

“She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier’s not unlimited.”

“No,” said Isabel, “he has about the extent of one’s pocket-handkerchief — the small ones with lace borders.” Her
humour had lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed of exercising it on so innocent an
object as Pansy’s suitor. “He’s very kind, very honest,” she presently added; “and he’s not such a fool as he
seems.”

“He assures me that she delights in him,” said Madame Merle.

“I don’t know; I’ve not asked her.”

“You’ve never sounded her a little?”

“It’s not my place; it’s her father’s.”

“Ah, you’re too literal!” said Madame Merle.

“I must judge for myself.”

Madame Merle gave her smile again. “It isn’t easy to help you.”

“To help me?” said Isabel very seriously. “What do you mean?”

“It’s easy to displease you. Don’t you see how wise I am to be careful? I notify you, at any rate, as I notified
Osmond, that I wash my hands of the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. Je n’y peux rien, moi! I can’t
talk to Pansy about him. Especially,” added Madame Merle, “as I don’t think him a paragon of husbands.”

Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, “You don’t wash your hands then!” she said. After which again
she added in another tone: “You can’t — you’re too much interested.”

Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the intimation that had gleamed before our heroine
a few moments before. Only this time the latter saw nothing. “Ask him the next time, and you’ll see.”

“I can’t ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let him know that he’s not welcome.”

“Ah yes,” said Madame Merle, “I forgot that — though it’s the burden of his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted
him. All the same,” she went on, “Osmond doesn’t dislike him so much as he thinks.” She had got up as if to close the
conversation, but she lingered, looking about her, and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw
the point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not opening the way.

“That must have pleased him, if you’ve told him,” she answered, smiling.

“Certainly I’ve told him; as far as that goes I’ve encouraged him. I’ve preached patience, have said that his case
isn’t desperate if he’ll only hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his head to be
jealous.”

“Jealous?”

“Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here.”

Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose. “Ah!” she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to
the fireplace. Madame Merle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the mantel-glass and pushed
into its place a wandering tress of hair.

“Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there’s nothing impossible in Lord Warburton’s falling in love with Pansy,” Madame
Merle went on. Isabel was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. “It’s true — there’s nothing impossible,”
she returned at last, gravely and more gently.

“So I’ve had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks.”

“That I don’t know.”

“Ask him and you’ll see.”

“I shall not ask him,” said Isabel.

“Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed that out. Of course,” Madame Merle added, “you’ve had infinitely more
observation of Lord Warburton’s behaviour than I.”

“I see no reason why I shouldn’t tell you that he likes my stepdaughter very much.”

Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. “Likes her, you mean — as Mr. Rosier means?”

“And you’ve never told Osmond?” This observation was immediate, precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle’s
lips.

Isabel’s eyes rested on her. “I suppose he’ll know in time; Lord Warburton has a tongue and knows how to express
himself.”

Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly than usual, and the reflection brought the
colour to her cheek. She gave the treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had been thinking it over
a little: “That would be better than marrying poor Mr. Rosier.”

“Much better, I think.”

“It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It’s really very kind of him.”

Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. “Ah, a moment ago I thought you seemed rather to
disparage her.”

“I said she was limited. And so she is. And so’s Lord Warburton.”

“So are we all, if you come to that. If it’s no more than Pansy deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her
affections on Mr. Rosier I won’t admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse.”

“Mr. Rosier’s a nuisance!” Isabel cried abruptly.

“I quite agree with you, and I’m delighted to know that I’m not expected to feed his flame. For the future, when he
calls on me, my door shall be closed to him.” And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle prepared to depart. She
was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an inconsequent request from Isabel.

“All the same, you know, be kind to him.”

She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows and stood looking at her friend. “I don’t understand your contradictions!
Decidedly I shan’t be kind to him, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord Warburton.”

“You had better wait till he asks her.”

“If what you say’s true, he’ll ask her. Especially,” said Madame Merle in a moment, “if you make him.”

“If I make him?”

“It’s quite in your power. You’ve great influence with him.”

Isabel frowned a little. “Where did you learn that?”

“Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you — never!” said Madame Merle, smiling.

“I certainly never told you anything of the sort.”

“You MIGHT have done so — so far as opportunity went — when we were by way of being confidential with each other.
But you really told me very little; I’ve often thought so since.”

Isabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain satisfaction. But she didn’t admit it now — perhaps because
she wished not to appear to exult in it. “You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt,” she simply
returned.

“She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord Warburton, because she was greatly vexed and was
full of the subject. Of course I think you’ve done better in doing as you did. But if you wouldn’t marry Lord Warburton
yourself, make him the reparation of helping him to marry some one else.”

Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle’s.
But in a moment she said, reasonably and gently enough: “I should be very glad indeed if, as regards Pansy, it could be
arranged.” Upon which her companion, who seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more tenderly
than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.